MASH 06 MASH Goes to Morocco

by Richard Hooker

  The cold truth of the matter was that the Congressman had something on the Secretary, specifically that the Secretary had been arrested in Spruce Harbor, Maine, at three o’clock in the morning, charged with “creating a public nuisance.” The very charge was subject to many different interpretations, none of which were at all flattering to the man charged with executing the foreign policy of the United States.

  “Creating a public nuisance” meant different things in different places. In Cambridge, Massachusetts, where the Secretary had been employed before entering public service, those charged with “creating a public nuisance” were those who had been unable to find a rest room at a time of urgent personal need and who had been apprehended, so to speak flagrante delicto, in close proximity to an alley wall. In other places, the charge implied littering, failure to curb one’s dog, indecent exposure, public drunkenness or marching in a parade without having previously secured the necessary permit.

  What the Secretary had been doing, fully clothed, all buttons buttoned, zippers zipped, dogless, standing in one spot, when he had been placed under arrest by Chief of Police Ernie Kelly personally was singing.

  While the good burghers of Spruce Harbor, Maine, normally had nothing at all against singing (indeed, Spruce Harbor’s Boob-a-Doob-a-Boo Barbershop Quartet had placed fifth in the state competition), they did not appreciate and would not tolerate, a cappella renditions of “Roll Me Over, Yankee Soldier” on the courthouse steps at three in the morning.

  It had seemed at the time a splendid idea. The Secretary of State had been in Spruce Harbor on an international diplomatic mission*4 of the highest sensitivity and importance. Students of diplomacy, of course, are well aware that far more, diplomacy-wise, can be accomplished over a cheering cup than over a barren conference table.

  (*4 The details are available, for those with a professional interest in behind-the-scenes diplomacy, or simply for the insatiably curious, in M*A*S*H Goes to London, New York, 1975.)

  The conferees had informally assembled at a well-known Spruce Harbor gourmet restaurant, the Bide-a-While Pool Hall/Ladies Served Fresh Lobster & Clams Daily Restaurant and Saloon, Inc., Stanley K. Warczinski, Sr., proprietor.

  Innkeeper Warczinski, having been informed by Dr. Benjamin Franklin “Hawkeye” Pierce, one of the local healers, of his once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to dispel, once and for all, the popular notion that a Polish Banquet consisted of two Poles sharing a can of beer and a hot dog, had pulled out all stops, gustatorily speaking. The lobsters and the clams came in a steady stream from the Warczinski kitchen; and a wide variety of intoxicants, ranging from the local home brew through a half-gallon bottle of Grand Marnier to earthenware jeroboams of imported Polish vodka, came from the Warczinsky Cellars on the strong shoulders of Stanley Warczinsky, Jr., Director of Beverage Services. For the occasion, he had tied the key to his Kawasaki motorcycle on a bootlace and hung it around his neck in the classical manner of the sommelier, or wine steward.

  When the meeting (to skip lightly over the somewhat boring details) had been satisfactorily concluded, it had, of course, been Toast Time, which period of compliment-passing cum tippling had lasted at least two hours. Following Toast Time, several participants in the conference, including the Secretary of State, had decided to raise the cultural level of Spruce Harbor by staging a small vocal recital on the steps of the County Courthouse.

  Through the good offices of Dr. Pierce, the incident had been kept out of the newspapers and, through the influence of Mrs. Mary Pierce—who had once happened to run into Chief of Police Kelly and a young woman known as “Tootsie Baby” at a Fraternal Order of Police Convention to which Mrs. Kelly had been unable to come—the record of arrest had been expunged from official police records.

  The expunging had been accomplished simply, by tearing out that page from the loose-leaf notebook which served as Spruce Harbor’s Police Arrest Record, or “blotter.”

  L. Bryan Fowler, Congressman “Smiling Jack” Jackson’s Administrative Assistant (which is what Congressmen call their press agents), had not participated in the a cappella recital. He had taken a little nap under the footsball machine before the others had been struck with the inspiration to sing, and had learned of the recital and arrest only after being awakened the next morning by Mrs. Warczinski, who had, as was her long-standing habit, begun the day by wetting down the floor of the establishment with a fire hose.

  (Under the circumstances, Mr. Fowler was forced to accept Mrs. Warczinski’s statement that she had no idea he was, in her words, “crapped out” under the footsball machine, and that there had been nothing personal in the hosing. He later applied for, and received, compensation for his ruined suit from the U.S. Treasury. It had, of course, been ruined in the execution of his official duties.)

  Once awake, L. Byran Fowler immediately made inquiry as to the whereabouts of Congressman Jackson. At first disbelieving Mrs. Warczinski’s assertation that the Congressman and “the little fat drunk with the funny accent” had been tossed into the local slammer, he soon came to believe that such a miscarriage of justice in these remote-from-Washington backwoods was indeed possible.

  He went (after, first, of course, changing his suit) immediately to the police station. He witnessed Chief Kelly ostentatiously ripping the Arrest Record sheet in half for the edification of Mrs. Pierce and, immediately recognizing that the Arrest Record was an important historical document which otherwise would be irretrievably lost to the nation’s scholars, managed to get it out of the wastebasket, and with a little Scotch tape, to reassemble it.

  Since the Congressman was rather busy in England, it wasn’t until they had been back in Our Nation’s Capital for a week that Mr. Fowler showed Smiling Jack his historical discovery. As he suspected, the Congressman was profoundly grateful for Fowler’s deep dedication to the preservation of historical artifacts. Immediately upon Fowler’s turning over of the Arrest Record to him, Smiling Jack signed the necessary documents recommending that Mr. Fowler receive a Sustained Superior-Performance Award of $2,500 from the Civil Service Commission. The Congressman also arranged with the Speaker of the House for Mr. Fowler’s job title to be changed from Administrative Assistant to Executive Administrative Assistant, which carried with it an additional honorarium of $5,500 per annum.

  “If the people expect good government,” as Smiling Jack so often said, “they have to expect to pay for it.”

  Smiling Jack then thoughtfully had the document Xeroxed and sent a copy to the Secretary of State as a little souvenir of their labor together in solving the nation’s diplomatic problems. Smiling Jack had only recently met the Secretary of State personally. He had been aboard an Air Force Sabreliner about to take off for England on Congressional business (the phrase is “junketing”) when the plane had suddenly been commandeered for the use of the Secretary. Since there was room for them all, Smiling Jack had been permitted to go along.

  From what he had seen of diplomacy in the week they had been together, it was a far more fascinating field of government than that (the Committee on Sewers, Subways and Sidewalks) in which he had spent his sixteen years in Congress.

  When he approached the Speaker of the House, however, volunteering to give up his seniority (he was third in line to become Chairman of the Committee on Sewers, Subways and Sidewalks) in exchange for a transfer to the Foreign Relations Committee, he had run into something of a blank wall.

  “I’ve had my eye on you for years, Charley,” the Speaker had begun.

  “That’s Edwards, Mr. Speaker,” Edwards L. Jackson corrected.

  “Of course. I’ve had my eye on you for years, Congressman Edwards,” the Speaker went on, “and you’re doing a bang-up job in the Sewers.”

  “It’s Congressman Jackson, Mr. Speaker,” the solon had corrected him again. “And I would like to broaden myself.”

  “What better place to broaden yourself, my boy, than in Sewers, Subways and Sidewalks?” the Speaker had said, making his little joke. “The House
needs someone of your expertise standing on the curb, so to speak, ready to jump in and assume command should, God forbid, your seniors in Sewers go down to defeat at the polls.”

  Smiling Jack had been around long enough to know that absolutely nothing he could say was about to change the Speaker’s mind. But he was not discouraged. Had he not shared the rigors, and yes, the dangers, of actually serving abroad with the Secretary of State himself, in far-off London? A word from the Secretary to the Speaker would be of more value than anything he could think of, including the first thing he had thought of: getting down on his knees and begging.

  He congratulated himself on his original assessment of the Secretary’s overall importance within the governmental infrastructure when three months passed before an audience could be fitted into the Secretary’s busy schedule for him. But, finally, the big day came. He dressed himself with care, in what he thought was appropriate attire for someone who wished to serve his country in the diplomatic game. He put on his newly acquired wardrobe (homburg, a morning coat, striped pants, patent-leather shoes and spats), carefully brushed his silver locks into place and took a taxi to the State Department Building.

  A Deputy Assistant Under Secretary of State for Protocol greeted him with the news that something unexpected had come up. The Ambassador from the People’s Democratic Republic of Glomorra (a small island off the English coast which was recently granted independence from the Isle of Man and admitted to the United Nations only the day before) was in town to present his credentials to the Secretary of State and, regrettably, there was no room for the Congressman at the official luncheon. Would the Congressman prefer to try again another day?

  The Congressman would not. Smiling Jack sat in one of the chrome-and-leather Barcelona chairs outside the Secretary’s office, dusted off his homburg and his patent-leather shoes with his handkerchief and settled down to wait just as long as necessary for his audience with the Secretary.

  Three-and-a-half hours later, after first expressing surprise that the Congressman was still “out here,” the Secretary’s secretary flung wide the door to the Secretary’s office.

  “The Honorable Jackson Edwards, Radical of California,” the secretary formally intoned.

  “That’s the Honorable Edwards Jackson,” the Congressman hissed, “Farmer—Free Silver, of Arkansas.”

  “Whatever,” the Secretary’s secretary said.

  “Mr. Secretary,” Smiling Jack said, flashing his famous smile, “how nice to see you again.”

  “You godda weird sense humor,” the Secretary replied. “You know dat?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand,” Smiling Jack said.

  “I got dat Xerox in the mail. You tink dat’s funny?”

  “I had hoped you would be amused,” Smiling Jack said.

  “So vat’s on your mind?” the Secretary said.

  “I have come to offer my services, Mr. Secretary,” Smiling Jack said.

  “I vas afraid it vas something like dat,” the Secretary said. “You guys on the Hill are just gonna have to learn that there’s not enough embassies around to pass one out to every Congressman vats gets vhipped in duh elections. Senators, ve can take care of, but there’s just too many Congressmen.”

  “I have every confidence, Mr. Secretary, that I shall be returned to office at the polls,” Smiling Jack said.

  “Vhere did you say you vere from?”

  “I have the honor to represent the fine people of Swampy Meadows, Arkansas,” Smiling Jack said.

  “They don’t have newspapers and TV out there?”

  “Mr. Secretary,” Smiling Jack said, determined not to be sidetracked into a political discussion when he had the Fate of the Nation, diplomatically, in mind, “what I need is your recommendation.”

  “For vhat?”

  “A word from you in the Speaker’s ear would, I feel sure, be enough for him to arrange my transfer to the Foreign Relations Committee.”

  “You been at the sauce again?” the Secretary said. “You tink I don’t have enough trouble vit dose nebbishes vithout you should be vith them?”

  At that point, the telephone buzzed, and the Secretary picked it up.

  “So?” he said.

  “Mr. Secretary, the Archbishop of New Orleans is on line fourteen. He says it’s an emergency.”

  “Vonderful!” the Secretary said. “Put him through.” He turned to Smiling Jack. “You gotta excuse me,” he said. “Trouble vith the Vatican.”

  “I’ll wait, if you don’t mind,” Smiling Jack replied.

  “It’s a secret matter,” the Secretary said. “You shouldn’t lissen.”

  “Not to worry,” Smiling Jack said. He put his index fingers in his ears and closed his eyes.

  The Secretary shrugged one of his famous shrugs and picked up the telephone.

  “So, Archbishop, how’s by you?” he said.

  “Mr. Secretary,” the Archbishop said, “some rather distressing intelligence has recently come to me, which I felt it my duty to pass on to you.”

  The Secretary sat up erect in his chair. He had only the week before failed again in secret negotiations to place the Vatican Intelligence Service under contract to the C.I.A. He had high hopes that close association with the Vatican Intelligence Service would see some of their accuracy, speed and all-around professionalism rub off on the C.I.A. which, surely and demonstrably, needed it. “So tell me,” he said.

  “Are you familiar with the Sheikhdom of Abzug?”

  “So, who isn’t?” the Secretary replied.

  “I have just learned that Sheikh Abdullah ben Abzug has completed arrangements for oil exploitation of his country,” the Archbishop said.

  “Archbishop, this is straight? You trust your source?”

  “Absolutely,” the Archbishop said.

  “Archbishop, I vouldn’t vant this to go any further but, between you, me and duh Lyndon B. Johnson Memorial, I had a little talk with Sheikh Abdullah ben Abzug myself about Abzugian oil. He told me then that the next time a Yankee Imperialist Infidel Bastard brought the subject up, he vas going to turn his oil over to duh Russians. I thought he vas bluffing. I guess he vasn’t.”

  “It’s worse than the Russians, I’m afraid, Mr. Secretary.”

  “The Chinese? Oy vay iz mir!”

  “Worse still, I’m afraid,” the Archbishop said, trying to break the news as gently as possible. “Chevaux Petroleum!”

  For a long moment, the Secretary said nothing. Then, as tears started to run down his cheeks, he shook his head to get control of himself and asked, desperately, “You’re sure, Archbishop? No chance of a mistake?”

  “I just spoke with Horsey myself,” the Archbishop said.

  “Oh, my God! Vhat could be vorse?”

  “Chevaux is taking with them the Reverend Mother Emeritus of the God Is Love in All Forms Christian Church, Inc., as spiritual adviser.”

  “Dat’s vorse,” the Secretary admitted.

  “Perhaps the Reverend Mother will be of some solace in case some of the men face Abzugian justice for insulting the throne,” the Archbishop said. “Religious counsel sometimes helps those facing execution.”

  “I forgot about dat,” the Secretary said, suddenly remembering the Abzugian Code of Conduct for Infidel Bastards Visiting Abzug. It was simplicity itself. One member of any group of people was placed in charge and named Sheikh pro tempore. He was responsible for seeing that none of his group violated any of the 1,004 Abzugian Criminal Canons, ranging from “adultery, commission of,” to “xylophone, unauthorized playing of,” the violation of which were punishable by death.

  Should such a violation occur, in the interests of speedy justice, the Sheikh pro tempore was summarily executed. In former times this was accomplished by being tied to four horses spurred in different directions and, more recently, in the interests of a merciful death, by a specially designed guillotine which sliced lengthwise, rather than off the top.

  The Secretary was aware that he had a
t the moment no legal right to restrain Chevaux Petroleum Company from going to Abzug or, for that matter, anywhere else in the world they wanted to go. To bar Americans from travel to any specific location required Congressional action; and there had been no such action with regard to the Sheikhdom of Abzug for the very good reason that no Congressman had ever heard of it.

  He had, on the other hand, standby authority to “temporarily” forbid Americans to travel anywhere where their lives would be in danger. The moment the eight-foot knife dropped on one of Horsey de la Chevaux’s Cajuns he would have proof of the danger, and he could order the rest of them out instantly, using the Marine Corps, if necessary, to enforce his order.

  Diplomacy was really a tough business, he thought. Here he was, cold-bloodedly looking forward to the death of some innocent Cajun, so that the lives of a hundred others could be saved.

  And then his eye fell on Congressman Edwards L. “Smiling Jack” Jackson (Farmer—Free Silver, Arkansas).

  “Congressman?” he said, now smiling his famous, warm smile. There was no response. Smiling Jack still had his eyes firmly pressed together and his index fingers in his ears. The Secretary threw a copy of The Washington Post at him, knocking one finger out of an ear. “Congressman!” he said, sternly.

  “Yes, Mr. Secretary?”

  “Did I understand you correctly, my dear Congress man, to say dat you would like to serve your country diplomatically?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Secretary,” Smiling Jack said, getting to his feet and coming to attention.

  “How does Sheikh pro tempore sound to you?” the Secretary asked. Then, without waiting for the Congressman to form a reply (Congressmen always take forever to form replies, except when asked how they feel about Motherhood or the American Flag), he turned back to the telephone.

  “Archbishop,” he said, “I think maybe I’m on top of this. I very much thank you for the tip, Archbishop, and I’ll make it up to you somehow.”

  “I am happy to be of service, Mr. Secretary,” the Archbishop said.